Deadlines are vital

Or: Why do I write more when I have less time?

My son was born in 2012, triggering an abrupt realisation that I was going to die.

Not imminently - I was healthy and in my early-30s - but, when presented with that astonishing demonstration of the beginning of new life, I was forced to also recognise the inevitability of the end of life. That overall cycle became crystal clear.

As a child, I more-or-less assumed that I’d live forever.

In my 20s, it felt like I had all the time in the world, and that I could still be anything I wanted to be, do anything I wanted to do.

His birth was the additional context my brain needed to fully grasp the finite nature of human existence. I recognised that I’d already spent 32 years not being a writer.

I was never going to be an astronaut. I was never going to be a champion athlete. Some things were already beyond my grasp, and it was now too late.